


grateful for my ex

by brokenEisenglas



Series: Stony Bingo 2019 Round 1 [6]
Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Happy Tony Stark, Healing, M/M, Mentions of Previous Relationships, Music reference, Protective Steve Rogers, Stony Bingo 2019, Tony’s black dog, anniversary of betrayal, evil exes, love and support, past-Tony Stark/Justine Hammer, past-Tony Stark/Natasha Romanova, past-Tony Stark/Tiberius Stone - Freeform, suicidal thoughts mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 07:17:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: Steve comes home from a long, awful day at work and is surprised by the presence of his lover not only in his apartment, but also making dinner. He isn't complaining, no, but... he is a bit confused. Something about it just doesn't feel right. He's missing something, and his eidetic memory doesn't want to cooperate. Wonderful.Stony Bingo 2019 square O2: evil exes





	grateful for my ex

**Author's Note:**

> STONY Bingo 2019 R1 square O2: evil exes
> 
> I'm not sure I did this prompt topic correctly, but I hope it's at least enjoyable. This fic was originally going to be titled Mr. Next, Next, but it took a turn somewhere.
> 
> Inspired in part by Ariana Grande's "Thank you, Next"
> 
> WARNING: Suicidal Thoughts mentioned. Threats of physical violence, too, in the form of anger outburst. Tony's Black Dog and Steve's Temper exist, even if only primarily in a flashback.  
> \--Unbetaed, self-edited  
> \--I love Steve.

Another day at the SHIELD headquarters, another day of paperwork and mission reports and training schedules and Steve’s nerves are shot by the monotony of it all. His bike is in the shop, so add on the need to take a cab home, and he’s in a _fantastic_ mood. Seriously, he feels wonderful. Coming home to his “cheap” shoddy Brooklyn apartment complex, with it’s damp and mildewed hallway carpets made worse by the overworked, burned-out ventilation system’s inability to properly circulate the inside air. Even Steve can tell the public area designs are dated, nearly twenty years past their expiry date. Add in the actual cost of living here, and how it is considered low-end, and he can’t decide if he wants to vomit in disgust or fucking vandalize the place in his rage. This new era is too expensive to live in and too fast to truly enjoy and on days like today he absolutely deplores being here.

He shoulders through the stairwell door to his floor, frustrated with everything and life in general, when he hears it. It’s coming from his apartment, that much he can tell. It’s music, terrible modern _pop_ music. It’s not even worthy of being called music; it’s trash. Why anyone would even want to listen to it, he doesn’t know, but someone _is._ In _his_ apartment. On _his_ radio.

And, they’re _singing_ , happily.

Steve shifts the canvas bag higher onto his shoulder, the weight of his shield bunching the leather jacket up near his neck. The keys jingle as he pulls them from his pocket and approaches the door. Behind, there is the clattering of pots and pans as the person moves around the tiny kitchen, followed by chopping noises, the sink running, and before Steve realizes, he’s been standing outside his own front door listening like some kind of audible voyeur as Tony-- _of course it’s Tony, who else would it be, you dunce?_ \-- seemingly smashes his way through Steve’s small kitchen with it’s few utensils and even fewer provisions.

Actually, that’s a good point: what is he even cooking?

Key in lock and turned, there’s not even a click.

“You forgot to lock the door,” he growls. The running water stops abruptly, and as Steve drops his canvas bag and shield a head of black curls pops-out from the kitchenette. Tony’s eyes shine in the dim hall lighting as he smiles a pearly smile. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“But, it was you!” Tony quips right back. He’s rather surprisingly chipper this evening, Steve notes. He wipes his wet hands on his too expensive black slacks as he walks to turn down the far too loud radio humming all the way.

“And, if it wasn’t?”

As long as Steve has known him, Tony’s always like this: negligent of his own health and safety.

_That isn’t true_ , a voice in his mind corrects.

Okay, maybe negligent isn’t the right word. Maybe ‘dismissive when inconvenient’ is better. Even so, anyone could have entered and it wouldn’t have even been breaking-and-entering. Anyone could have come in and--

Lithe fingers graze up the fabric of his shirt, under his jacket and across his chest. The hands move over his shoulders and Steve relaxes just enough to let Tony ease the leather off, deftly catching it before it can fall to the floor.

“Then, I knew you wouldn’t be too far behind, and you’d save me like the knight in kevlar and spandex that you are,” damp breath ghosts over his sensitive skin as he whispers into the shell of Steve’s ear.Soft lips caress his lobe, teeth nipping lightly at the flesh. The hairs on his neck and arms rises, anticipation for more instinctual at this point. Tony’s tongue licks warm and wet along his jaw, sucking keenly at those spots that make Steve’s knees go weak and his cock twitch in too restrictive pants. He’s dizzy by the time Tony presses soft lips against his own, and the effort to think, to enthusiastically respond takes too long because Tony starts laughing, deep and gravelly. Beautifully, Steve thinks. He doesn’t laugh enough; he deserves to laugh more.

One arm spins to drape the leather coat over a thin shoulder as the other cups Steve’s ass, and his skin prickles again, all of his senses acutely aware of all the places where Tony touches him, where he doesn’t, his heartbeat and breathing and Tony’s well put together but he isn’t unaffected. He smells _amazing_.

“Interested in dinner, darling?” Tony leans back and asks.

Steve follows, body moving forward as Tony’s pulls away, his arms finally deciding to work as they wrap around the other man’s slim waist and pull him back in. He’s warm through the fabric of his white shirt, sweat beginning to dapple along his chest and stomach, provocatively hinting at the flush of the skin beneath. It’s been such a long day with SHIELD, and Steve’s frustrations have built, and this tension with Tony, the knowledge that he can have this gorgeous creature wrapped in the frivolous cloth, only edges him closer to full lustful need. 

He traces a hand up sweat-sticky flesh, curling large, thick fingers into those soft, black curls and pulls. Tony moans under his touch, exposing the delicate flesh of his neck, submissive to Steve’s desires. He’s always been like this, since the first time they clashed post-mission, falling into bed like titans meeting in battle. It was fast but heavy, rough but considerate, as much giving as it was taking. Years working together, tantalizingly close to something they both avoided -- Tony through Natasha and he through Jan, then his missions -- yet couldn’t totally bypass in the end. Steve hadn’t known what he felt wasn’t frustration, but rather hunger. Hunger only satisfied by the supposedly unobtainable. It was ecstasy, that first savoured bite after so long without a meal.

He’s not hungered in the year-and-a-half since.

“Only if there’s dessert afterwards,” Steve responds low, the vibrations of his voice traveling along Tony’s flesh as the goosebumps rise. Tony attempts to nod his head, whimpering when the motion pulls his hair taught against Steve’s grip. “Good boy.”

Tony moans in response, the praise visibly plucking the triggers to his complete submission. He’s hot and hard, wanton in his display. Eyes half-lidded, the long rave lashes frame a hazy crystal gaze and Steve knows he’s nearly under when the smell of crisping, nearing burnt food reaches his nose.

Had it been anything or anyone else-- SHIELD, the Ultimates, hell, the fucking world-- Steve would have said ‘fuck it,’ but not that. Not dinner.

“Tony. Oven.”

“Oh!” The hazy veil in his eyes lifts immediately, and Steve watches as a pert ass runs to save the food before it’s a lost cause. He follows seconds after. There’s a soft ‘whoop’ of success as the pan clatters on the stovetop. “You smelled that?” Tony asks, turning around looking exhilarated. “Perfect timing! You’re better than the recipe!”

Steve snorts, the blush warming his chest even if it doesn’t travel all the way up to his face. “That’s me.”

“Super-soldier and kitchen timer all wrapped-up in one big, sexy package!”

Tony giggles as he covers what looks and smells like lasagna with a hand towel. He starts spinning around, looking at the array of bags spread over the miserable excuse of counter space. Now that Steve’s had a chance to really see what Tony has been up to, he feels guilty. This really isn’t a place fit for someone like Tony; it’s why he usually insists they meet at Tony’s penthouse or somewhere in Midtown. Tony’s flashy, larger than life, and Steve’s place isn’t… much like him. 

The thought shoots a pang of anger down his spine, anger with himself, with his audacity to assume that someone like Tony would even want to be with someone like him, what’s more that Tony deserves someone better.

“Whoa, hey, Cap! Why the sudden mood? You alright?” Tony’s standing there armed with a loaf of bread and another hand towel, one that Steve doesn’t recognize, as Steve stares. “Steve?”

“It’s fine, Tony.” He huffs. Might as well make himself useful, “Anything I can do to help?”

  
  


The chicken and eggplant lasagna is good, a bit different from what Steve’s had, but it’s decent. The garlic bread and sauteed Brussels sprouts add some extra flavor to the meal, and by the end, Tony’s nearly falling asleep in his seat at the tiny two-seater dining table. Steve uses the opportunity to collect their plates and do the dishes. Compliments to the cook, his ma used to say. If someone cooks for you, you offer to clean. It’s hard work, and if he’d been raised any other way he’d probably underappreciate it. In this moment, he’s glad for the privilege.

He is a bit surprised though by the knowledge that Tony can cook. He’d said as much, to which Tony had winked and said, “I’m Italian, darling. It’d be the eighth circle of hell for me otherwise.”

“Don’t you mean tenth?” He’d asked in response.

“Nope,” he’d popped the ‘p’ licking a garlic covered finger salaciously, “the eighth, for sure.”

Since learning this new fact, Steve has wondered how many of the home-cooked meals they’d eaten together had been made by Tony and not the newest not-Jarvis. Certainly Tony would have told him if he’d been the chef? Or, maybe not. They live two very different lives despite their places on the Ultimates.

He places the dirty dishes in the sink and packs the leftovers away. He’s definitely collected more tubberware. He shakes his head and laughs; always taking care of him, Tony is. Of all of them.

Steve’s not even sure if they’re still on a team.

The idea pricks a distant mental thread, his eidetic memory stirring. There’s something important he’s forgetting, something about the team, or maybe a story Tony’s told, or perhaps…

“Oh.” 

Indeed. He hadn’t recognized the signs this time. Of course, since it happened Tony has actually quit drinking, so the primary indicator wasn’t available, but others were there throughout the evening. Slight mood swings, cycling moments of hyperactivity, more physical contact than normally sought. Hell, he’d even avoided answering the few attempts at inquiry about the--

“I’m dense,” he mutters while wanting to smack his own head. Of course Tony wouldn’t answer anything about the occasion; he’s trying to distract from it. “So, so dense.”

Steve grabs one of the towels and rushes to dry his hands, deciding to just take the towel with him, but slows when he hears the beginnings of a Fed Astaire single playing from the other room.

When he rounds the corner, he sees Tony pushing the couch back. He’s already moved the small coffee table aside. He’s no longer wearing his dress shoes; instead, his feet slide on the carpet through the socks as he casually shimmies from foot to foot, dancing on his own as he, Steve presumes, sets a dancefloor.

“You know it’s rude to stare.”

“It’s rude to start moving things in other people’s homes, too, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Tony’s posture is perfect as he straightens-up again, hands propping onto his hips as he raises a brow with a cocky smirk on his face.

“Oh yeah?”

"Yeah,” he agrees. He tosses the towel onto the dining table as he walks by on his way to Tony. The other man appears unconcerned; in fact, if the tenting in his pants is anything to go by, Steve would say he’s eager. “What you got there?” he asks in lieu of ruining the moment with his concerns.

“Dessert.”

The response is quick and exactly what Steve wants. Tony wiggles his hips and waggles his brows, always so enticing. Unfortunately, it’s what spurns Steve to shrug it off and divert.

“So, no dancing? I thought you were a true gentleman.”

Tony barks a laugh, dropping all pretence of alluring Steve into immediately having sex. “Let me call my lawyers. Tell me whoever it is that slandered my name, darling. I’ll fix it.”

Steve gently grasps Tony’s wrists, smoothly pulling him into an embrace.

“Truly, you must be a masochist, to be willing to send yourself to the big house like that?”

It’s only for a moment but Tony stiffens in his grip, breath caught in his chest. He covers by subtly urging Steve to sway, moving them in place. Silence follows and it pokes and prods at a sore spot in Steve’s chest, a tender place he hides away.

He lets the first song finish and waits until close to the end of the second before he pulls back in order to lay a soft kiss to Tony’s smooth cheek. He ignores the taste of salty tears as he holds his partner close, squeezing enough to offer support but not to harm. Tony burrows further into him, like he’s trying to merge them together and disappear, and when that doesn’t work, he starts to shake; his curt gasps betray his silent cries.

A year ago, they’d fought loud and violently. There had been alcohol and pills, Tony’s screamed insults and Steve’s bellowed disappointments. A cracked phone, old photos, and a porno on repeat. Steve had thrown one of Tony’s living room end tables, breaking a mirror in the process, while Tony sat dead-eyed into the distance. If he wanted to kill himself, then he could do it alone.

Even back then Steve couldn’t leave Tony to wallow in his own suffering. He’d gone to Tony’s bedroom, stripped and changed the sheets, and dusted. He wiped every surface clean, then he wiped the walls, too. When Steve had finished there and the bathroom, showered and laid down, only then did Tony drag himself into the room.

He disrobed and crawled behind Steve into bed, close but never touching.

“I didn’t take them,” he’d said.

Steve had rolled over and held him the rest of the night.

This year, he promised to do better.

“When I first woke up and I was told about Bucky and Gail, I felt betrayed. Robbed of something I thought was mine. Something I thought I deserved.” The memories aren’t fresh, but they continue to hurt. Those first months after learning of his friends’ happiness, the happiness that should have been his, and he shivers. Tony’s palms dig into the muscles of his back, supportive strength offered to _Steve_ when this is supposed to be about _Tony_. “So, I may not know exactly what you’re going through…”

The rest gets caught in his throat, the words refusing to release. What else can he say? He _doesn’t_ understand, but also he kind of does.

He lets the silence settle over them, gently swaying them to the rhythm of the music. Their sadness drops like clouds into the hills, tangible and all around. In this room, time exists differently. The clock ticks on, but the moment oscillates around them, words coming and going in the form of muscle twitches and adjusted grips, sniffling and breathy cries. The grey lingers. It pervades, the shadow at one’s back… or the black dog sleeping at one’s heels.

It’s been so long since Steve has cried.

“I once told Justine that a man couldn’t buy women. That he should attempt to be as worthy of their affections as possible.”

Steve presses his nose harder into those beautiful curls, breathing in the scent of styling products, oils, and musk.

“And, I knew Natasha wanted my money. Hell, so did Tiberius,” he snuffles hard and tries to pull away to wipe the snot from his nose, but Steve doesn’t care. Instead, Steve places one of his hands on the back of Tony’s head and encourages him to stay. “I’ll ruin your shirt,” he whispers into Steve’s shoulder. Steve shrugs, and Tony chuckles and rubs his face into the fabric, “Don’t complain to me, then, when it doesn’t come out.”

“It’ll wash.”

They stand still together. The album comes to an end, and Tony uses that as his cue to step away and change the record. He avoids eye contact, so Steve goes to grab them some waters. When he returns with cups in hand, something newer is playing. It’s one of Tony’s albums, smooth jazz.

Tony’s back is to Steve as he gazes out one of the small apartment windows. The shirt sticks to his back outlining lean muscles. His slacks pull just right to display the suppleness of his ass, and even in his sadness, Tony is the most beautiful person has ever seen.

“I appreciate you, Steve.” It isn’t the words themselves so much as it is the tone that punches at that tender place in his chest. Steve’s finding it a bit hard to breathe. He must zone for a moment too long because the next moment he feels the slip of glasses from his grip, but it’s Tony taking them away and not their slipping. “I got them, don’t worry. No need to panic. Got them, big guy. You’re good.”

Tony’s one of the most put-together people Steve has ever met. Even back in the war, there were few people able to suffer what Tony has and still go on living like he does. The media call him selfish and prideful, and while it’s true, it isn’t in the way they like to say it is.

Tony’s selfish to hide his selflessness; he’s prideful in part because he is as smart as he says he is, even when he doesn’t think he is, and in part because he’s socially awkward and covering it by being an ass. Not many people have had the opportunity to see Tony like Steve is seeing him now. And, some of those who came before tried to smother it away.

“I’m honored to be your partner, Tony.” Bright blue eyes widen, shine fresh with renewed tears. “I want to do right by you, in the best way I can. I hope I’m never like them.”

"You’ll never be like them, Steve. You don’t have an evil bone in your body.”

They meet in the middle of the living room, slotting close together as though they were made to fit.

“I don’t deserve you,” Tony mutters as he nestles into the v of Steve’s neck. 

It takes a moment but, finally, his heart gives and his eyes burn as he says, “Let’s agree to disagree,” and the tears fall.

**Author's Note:**

> So much for wanting and failing to write fluff. (chuckles)


End file.
